I Feel Positively GIDdy

"Hit me like a ton of bricks, had to get my outlook fixed"
"Backs Turned Looking Down the Path" Warren Zevon

Gender Identity Disorder. GID. So my therapist has assured me repeatedly. Damn, for thirty years, I thought I was just a garden variety crossdresser. Turns out I'm a rare bird. So I've graduated from CD to TG without a ceremony, but, of course, with a gown.

GID came up again today because I've been concerned by my fluctuating feelings of femaleness (say that three times!). I've been feeling more male at times lately. I hope this isn't resignation about my current role at home. Better that it be a hormone spike (testosterone, ugh), which I can be confident will subside as I age. Or maybe it's seeing these oft-mentioned hairy limbs so much more in warm weather.

There's been a lot of conflict and emotional anguish for six months, but there's a lot of positives coming out of it, too. I've never felt more alive. I love feeling feminine, even when I'm not dressing the part. There's a contentment sometimes that I don't remember ever experiencing.

Has it been worth it? Today, I'd say yes. It's still daunting in terms of the scope of what I'd like to accomplish, but i would miss my girlness desperately if I had to return to what I was.

A Spanner in the Works

"He was trapped in a haircut he no longer believed in"
"King James Version" Billy Bragg

In the quest for girldom, we all have long and short term goals. My top short term goal, for a couple months, has been a wig upgrade. This was reinforced by my last support meeting. Wigs kept coming up as I was chatting with people. Hints, or my paranoid imagination?

And one woman said, point blank, "So tell me about your wig." I told her it was cheap, purchased online, but was an improvement over male pattern baldness, which is true. Her comment was a bit blunt, but I can hardly hold that against someone. She meant well, like telling you your skirt is tucked inside your pantyhose. "You know, that hair is really not flattering." That's what I heard. It made me very self-conscious, the kind of help I don't need.

So now I'm doubly determined to address the problem. I've had several testimonials about a wonderful, t-friendly wig shop here in Lex that has been patronized by many of our local beauties, and I've been trying to find a time to sneak over there. But wait, there's a wrench to be thrown into this.

Like many Americans, my family is stretched very thin financially. We're short this month, writing cold checks, walking the tightrope. So, today, my wife says we need to make a deposit to cover some checks. She proposes we each take fifty dollars from our dresser drawer discretionary funds. In my head, I'm screaming, "Noooooooo!" Outwardly, I mumbled, "Umm, sure." What could I say?

In addition to the "don't ask, don't tell" and "no surprises" policies, my wife has a corollary I call "it's your hobby, take charge of it." This is an actual quote from last October when it all hit the fan. If I had taken charge of today's situation, I would have said that the money is already spoken for. It is going toward making me a more attractive woman. Maybe attractive and self-confident enough to take pictures, post them on my page, and stop hiding behind this stupid avatar. Maybe a step closer to letting Leslie see the outside world.

But, I did not take charge, and that fifty dollars is unlikely to come back. A hundred and sixty bucks could have gotten me a pretty nice hair hat, but I fear that $110 won't get much of anything. Maybe I can steal some cash from the kids.... Whoa, thinking like a man for a second there.

Therapy on Thursday! Missed last week, now I'm back on the brain gang.

Emotional Triage

"I'm a complicated communicator" -- Liz Phair

So, since the birthday note, all's normal, at least by our standards. No mention of the note, no reiteration of the complaints therein. In fact, she has been rather affectionate.

Call me cynical, and many have, but this feels more like a change of strategy on her part, rather than a change of heart. You know, flies...honey...vinegar. S'allright by me. This fly prefers honey.
I was going to just let sleeping dogs lie, and never ever mention the note. But my therapist insisted that I need to acknowledge my wife's feelings and address her worries. As usual, she's right. And despite swearing off of notes forever, I'll have to write my response, because I'll surely say something wrong if I go with the spoken word. I need to get this one right.

Taxes on Saturday, then my wife's feelings. Ah, priorities...

Happy Birthday?

"Don't confront me with my failures, I have not forgotten them" -- Jackson Browne

I should really be working on my taxes now, but events compel me to write. Tonight we had our support group meeting, and I dressed for the second time before a captive audience. The evening wasn't the immense thrill of the first time, but I love these people and I'm always happy to reconnect. They're one leg of my tripod o' support, along with the 360 crowd and my therapist. Couldn't make it without them. All good, but not why I write.

When I left for the meeting, I found a handwritten letter in my front seat from, you guessed it, my wife. I should say that letters have a history with us, going way back. She can, and does, talk circles around me, so I have occasionally written my thoughts, knowing I could never complete them otherwise. A few weeks back, I started a firestorm when I wrote two pages criticizing the "Don't ask, don't tell" and "No surprises" policies as conflicting and unworkable. I received in response a 12-page letter that singed my eyebrows. I swore to myself I wouldn't go the letter route anymore.

So I'm prepped for my monthly fix of happiness, on my birthday no less, and she drops a bomb. Here is the text of her letter:

Redacted

I'm not sure what I feel about this. It's clearly heartfelt and sincere. And she's hurting. Outside of growing out my fingernails for a month, I'm not sure what unpredictable things I've been doing. I cut those tonight post-meeting so she won't have to look at that reminder for awhile.
Though I profess to have the brain of a woman, I'm obviously still thinking like a man now, because I haven't a clue where to go with this. She complains that I'm not making her feel attractive, but when I do, I bring up bad feelings. I suspect I can't win on this one.

Band-Aids & Styptic Pencils

No, this title doesn't mean I got to remove any hair. Rather, it refers to the balm applied to the knife wounds described in my last entry. It's actually a good thing. It provides a welcome respite from the unrelenting negativity on this page lately. What a drama queen!

My wife is full of surprises. After our tiff Saturday night, she decided to look up some info on gender identity on the web. She highlighted stuff that supported her argument--that I need to remain manly. She presented her materials Monday night.

This discussion was a conversation.

From the Standards of Care, she wanted to draw attention to the difficulties encountered by many during the Real-Life Experience. She seems to think that I only view transition as milk-and-honey. Ha! I always sweat the details.

From the DSM-IV, she highlighted a passage on transvestic fetishism. Yes, now she wants me to be a crossdresser! I copped to the fetish aspect, at least until recently. Since January, when I first laid eyes on Leslie, the sexual component has disappeared. Now, when I look in the mirror, I don't see a guy dressing up, I see the woman that I know resides within.

She admitted that if we had no children, she would consider letting me remove my hair as an experiment. An easy concession, as we do have children. But I planted a seed. Over the winter, I have never worn shorts around the house, always sweats or PJs. I also rolled up my sleeves no more than three or four times. My point was that I am capable of hiding bare arms and legs during the cold months. Perhaps next fall...? She wanted to shoot down the idea, but had no ammo. I'll let the idea simmer for a while.

All in all, not a lot of new ground broken, but we both got to make our points, and it was civil. That's progress.